


Ask Me If I'm Happy

by lemonlipbalm



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, It ends on a fluffy note though, M/M, Mentions of platonic Saihara/Momota and past Saihara/Akamatsu, ventfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 06:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15407364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonlipbalm/pseuds/lemonlipbalm
Summary: Saihara compares his past to his present and finds that he isn't sure whether happy is place or a person or a state of being.Advice on the matter comes from the last source he would expect.





	Ask Me If I'm Happy

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me, writing something sfw for once. I hadn't written Oumasai yet, so I wanted to give that a try! I haven't seen many works where Ouma gives Saihara emotional support in a way that doesn't feel too ooc, and while I think it's harder to write Ouma reaching out of his own volition than the other way around, I wanna believe he could do it. So... this came out.
> 
> It's also tagged with "vent" because that's what it is, but I started writing and then the length got way out of hand lol... There's nothing too graphic here though, mostly just sad. Because Saihara's depressed.

There are days where Saihara wants to do little besides lie in his bed and stare at the walls of his room until the corners blur together. He wishes that his sheets would swallow him, suffocate him, stifle every sense he has until his consciousness escapes him entirely.

These are days when he forces himself to function, if only just enough that his thoughts won’t wander. He forces himself to eat breakfast. He forces himself to scrub the nighttime grease from his face. He forces himself to put on the same clothes he’s been wearing for the past two days. He forces himself to leave his apartment. He forces himself to perform tasks that he knows he is only able to complete because of the routine he has in place.

The understanding that he can do things he couldn’t have last year is a small reassurance, but a reassurance nonetheless.

His feet are taking him to a destination that he can’t know yet. He isn’t thinking about walking. Walking is supposed to clear the fog from one’s mind and lift one’s spirits, but the monotonous motions of his legs, one in front of the other, aren’t enough to wipe his former best friend’s smile from his memory.

Once upon a time, Akamatsu Kaede had smiled at him like he was the only person in the room who mattered. She would touch her hand to his and tell him how deeply she cared for him in a way that made him think he must have swallowed liquid sunshine with the warmth pooling in his stomach. Even now, he can’t put a word to the emotions she stirred back then. It’s hard to define them because his amygdala is tumultuous, spilling finicky feelings into his bloodstream until his heart is an overfilled glass waiting to be knocked down.

Maybe he doesn’t want to define them, either. Giving what he feels a name cements it in his reality, and those are truths that he would prefer not to dwell on.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. The only truth that matters now is that Akamatsu Kaede wants nothing to do with him anymore. The lie he tells himself whenever he remembers is that it’s fine this way.

The joyous shouts of children pull him out of his head. He glances up to find himself standing in front of the park nestled a few blocks away from where he lives. It’s the one where, in high school, he and Momota would come to train, and where they now visit every once in a while for nostalgia’s sake because it’s got the best view of the stars in the area.

_Maybe I should call Momota-kun._ It’s a self-indulgent thought, and he doesn’t entertain it for long. He’s in no state to seek company. He’ll open his mouth and all of his guts will spill out unsolicited and no one should have to carry that weight.

His path shifts from concrete into grass. He skirts the playground equipment with his hands pocketed, avoiding the handful of children running about, and heads for the more isolated portion of the park for a place to sit.

He hadn’t been expecting to find the farthest bench already occupied.

A short, spindly man is seated lazily, one ankle bent over his opposite thigh, arm slung over the wooden backing. He’s scrolling through something on his phone, though he looks up as Saihara approaches and meets his eyes with big, round, oddly blank ones. Slowly, he lowers his phone, a smile curling onto his lips but not making it quite far enough up his face to be convincing.

His name tumbles out of Saihara’s mouth like a question. “Ouma-kun?”

“Well, if it isn’t Saihara-chan! It’s been so long that I almost didn’t recognize you,” Ouma says too cheerily.

“It hasn’t been that long,” Saihara says. “I saw you at the supermarket just last week.”

“A week is a waaay long time, though. At least,” Ouma sniffs, “it felt like an eternity without my dearest darlingest Saihara-chan around. I missed you soooo much!”

“You have my number,” Saihara reminds him dryly. “You know that you can see me anytime you want.”

“Oh, so _I_ have to contact _you_ first? I see how it is.” Ouma shakes his head with a soft _tsk_. “I didn’t take you as the kind of guy to play hard-to-get.”

“That’s not what it is,” Saihara starts to say, only to cut himself off with clipped sigh. This is why Ouma is able to drift in and out of his life as he pleases—the other man would never deign to reach out, and it's hard to build a bridge to the uncharted island of Ouma’s thoughts when he knows it will be burned before he can even finish it. “Nevermind. What are you doing out in a place like this?”

“This is a public park,” Ouma says, brow cocked. “Perfect place for a leisurely little stroll, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re just sitting on your phone,” Saihara points out.

“Taking a break. I was planning on leaving soon, anyway. Too many kids around, ruining the peace and quiet,” Ouma says. Saihara almost wants to ask if he’d been mistaken for one of them. “And what are you doing here, Saihara-chan? I didn’t take you as the type to go out on a whim. Finally decided to get some more vitamin D, maybe?”

“I… guess you could say that.” Ouma is still regarding him with his eyebrows lifted. Self-consciously, he shifts his weight between his feet. “I mean, I’ve been told I should try getting out more, so. I’m doing that now.”

Ouma doesn’t acknowledge his answer. His chin jerks down a bit, directing Saihara’s gaze to the space next to him. “You’re allowed to sit if you don’t have anywhere to be, you know,” he says, pointedly slipping his phone into his shorts. “I won’t bite. Unless you ask me reeeally nicely, that is.”

Saihara rolls his eyes, but only hesitates for a couple of moments before awkwardly settling on the other end of the bench. His hands lock together in front of him for lack of anything better to do, thumbs rolling idly over each other.

“Sooo,” Ouma starts, “what was that you were saying? Someone told you to stop being a hermit?” His head droops to the side. “Did that someone happen to be big and smelly and have really bad hair and no sense of style?”

Saihara frowns, but tactfully pretends not to know that Ouma is talking about Momota. “No one specific told me that. I’ve heard it from a few different people.”

“Ah, of course. Saihara-chan is so popular! He has so many friends that I can’t be bothered to remember all their names,” Ouma says. “Not bad for someone who never leaves his room.”

“I wouldn’t say that I’m popular or anything,” Saihara says. “There are really only a handful of people I actually talk to. I’m fine with that, though.”

“Are you?” Ouma asks. “I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I didn’t have people crawling all over me constantly. It’s a blessing and a curse, being as irresistible as I am.”

Saihara knows that that’s a lie. Ouma has even fewer friends than he does, but based on the way he acts, the other man probably prefers it that way. Certainly, he must be imagining the bitter note underlying the sarcasm.

He is like Ouma, in a sense, despite being so very unlike him. Saihara believes sometimes that it would be easier to keep his glass heart in a lockbox. He could shut himself in his apartment and stare at his walls all day and not talk to anyone, but unlike Ouma, it’s not because he fears people. He simply cares too much for them. He cares too much about Momota to keep him selfishly tethered to the earth with his sorrows. He cares too much about Akamatsu to contact her and ask where he went wrong.

He doesn’t realize that he hasn’t responded until Ouma’s fingers snap far too close to his face. “Hey, Saihara-chan. Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore people?”

“Oh,” Saihara says absently. “Um. Sorry. I wasn’t trying to ignore you, just… started thinking about something.”

Ouma’s features smooth out into neutrality, but his eyes hold a passive curiosity. “You sure are acting weird today,” he remarks after a loaded second. “What’s on your mind, Saihara-chan?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Saihara says. “Nostalgia, mostly.”

“Ahhh. Stuck on the past, huh,” Ouma muses. “That’s really dangerous, you know.”

Saihara nods stiffly. “I do know. It’s… silly, though.”

Ouma flashes him a lopsided smile. “Oh, so you’re too embarrassed to tell me, then.”

“Not really,” Saihara says. “I don’t think it’s anything you’d be particularly interested in hearing about, though.”

Ouma leans a bit closer, bright and attentive. “Try me.”

Saihara pauses and slants his brows dubiously at Ouma. Ouma is someone he considers a friend on a good day, maybe, but it’s always hard to tell what Ouma wants from him. It’s hard to tell whether or not Ouma’s intentions are good, or whether he’s seeking amusement under the guise of offering help.

But remembering the distant warmth of the past is slowly causing his chest to ice over, and so he caves, squeezing his fingers together tighter.

“I saw Akamatsu-san the other day when I went out,” he says. “I don’t know if she saw me, or just pretended not to notice me. I didn’t try to talk to her.”

Ouma’s expression doesn’t change. He knows a bit about this, at least. He knows that Saihara and Akamatsu don’t speak, though he doesn’t know why. That makes both of them, really.

His teeth close over his bottom lip, just to give it a little tug. “Part of me wanted to approach her, but… I couldn't. I froze up and left.”

“Why?” Ouma asks. “I doubt she seriously, like, hates you or anything.”

Saihara's shoulders limply lift and lower again in a halfhearted shrug. “I don't know. I think she probably does hate me, at this point. I… a few months ago I tried messaging her again, just to apologize and get some closure. And I never heard back, so I don't know if she just ignored me, or got a new phone number or- or blocked mine, or something.”

Nothing about Ouma's posture or tone betrays any emotion as he says, “You know, Saihara-chan, I have to wonder. Do you have anything to apologize for?”

“Yes,” Saihara replies instinctively. He pauses. “I don't think it was one specific thing, really. I think I owe her for a series of things. Little things that all built up over time.” His nails are digging into his knuckles now, but he hardly notices the sting. “I just wasn't a good friend. I mean, have you ever…” he pulls a face then, trailing off. “Nevermind.”

“Have I ever what? Been a bad friend?” Ouma snorts.

“That wasn't what I was going to ask,” Saihara says. “I just realized that it would be stupid to ask if you've been in relationships where you give and give and the other person just, doesn't return any of that time or energy.”

“Ohhh.” Ouma’s head cocks inquisitively. “Why would that be a stupid question? I'll have you know that I'm an excellent therapist, Saihara-chan. People come to me with their problems aaaall the time, just like you are right now.”

Saihara purses his lips, then releases them along with a heavy sigh. “Actually, I don't know why I'm telling you this.”

“Because I give great advice, obviously.” When Saihara frowns, Ouma insists, “It's true! And you just love getting advice too, right? Being told what to do and all that.”

“I knew this was pointless,” Saihara mutters, prying apart his hands and dusting off his pants.

“Hey, hear me out,” Ouma says, back straightening. “This is serious advice, I promise. Listen.”

Saihara stops and peers over at him with wary eyes, on the verge of rising from his seat.

“I think,” Ouma says with his hands spread, “you need to learn how to stop giving a fuck.”

Saihara blinks, once, twice. “Excuse me?”

“Stop giving a fuck,” Ouma repeats himself. “It's over and done with. It was months ago, right? One of these days you're gonna have to move on.”

The dip of Saihara's brows is beyond frustrated, now. “You're not the first person to tell me that. That’s the same advice everyone’s been giving me, but it’s… it’s not that simple. I mean,” he gestures with his hands, random and sharp and frustrated, “it’s not as if I _enjoy_ feeling terrible whenever I remember that she probably wishes she’d never met me. It’s not as simple as just, deciding to feel better.”

“Isn’t it, though? Are you telling me you don’t have an on-off switch for your feelings?” Ouma asks. He appears to note the clench of Saihara’s jaw, though, and amends, “Kidding, kidding. But you know, Saihara-chan, I can’t help but noticing all these little things about you, and some of those things tell me that you’re doing better than you were last year.”

“You… notice things like that?” Saihara asks, taken aback.

“Of course I do! Why wouldn’t I keep tabs on you, my beloved?” He bats his lashes for emphasis. “You’re trying to leave your apartment for stuff besides your job, right? You talk to people more often, and you’ve got aaaall these people who like you and think you’re super interesting to be around. And I guess that’s why I can’t help thinking,” he twists the dyed tips of his curled-up hair between his fingers and sends Saihara a meaningful look, “if you’ve got all of that, aren’t you happy?”

Saihara is stunned enough that his tongue goes slack in his mouth. It’s a question he’s asked himself often enough before, but one that he’s never been able to answer.

There are days where he can pull himself out of bed at a reasonable time and make himself a proper meal and do his laundry and then, if he’s not working, spend time with someone he cares about. There are days where he imagines what it would feel like to gut himself and excise the emotions that threaten to eat him from the inside out. And then there are days like today, days where he can function when he wants to do anything but. He has some good days and some bad days and some todays. He isn’t sure what the ratio for happiness is, the point at which he can say with full confidence that he’s content with his life.

“I… don’t know,” he finally responds, slow and honest. “Maybe I should be. I think that I’m trying to be, at least. It doesn’t last.”

“Interesting,” Ouma says. His fingers go still, and he’s not quite looking at Saihara anymore. “Have you ever heard the saying ‘fake it ‘til you make it’? I don’t think people put enough stock into it. And it sounds to me like that’s what you’re doing.” He continues around a thin-lipped simper, “Some days you have to just put on a face, huh?”

“I suppose,” Saihara says, his tone measured.

“Right,” Ouma nods, “because if you repeat a lie often enough it’ll become the truth. That’s what that saying means. So if you tell yourself that you’re happy for long enough, it’ll become true. And if you remember Akamatsu-chan and tell yourself that what she thinks of you now doesn’t matter because most other things your life are fine, that can be your truth.”

Saihara peers over at Ouma a little more intently now, because his words hold a degree of unexpected sincerity. If Saihara didn’t know better, he would say that Ouma understands.

“I don’t like liars,” Ouma says, leaning farther back against the bench. “And people who lie to themselves are the worst kind. But I think what I hate even more is people who mope around all day and act like they can’t change anything. If you have to trick yourself into doing something about it, well,” he tilts his head up, and his hands clasp together at the back of his skull. “Sometimes them’s the breaks.”

Saihara hums, contemplative. “Maybe. I feel like that’s what I’ve been doing. Making myself do things, I mean.”

“And it’s getting you somewhere, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Saihara’s own gaze slides up to follow Ouma’s. He wonders what the other man is seeing. They’re looking up at the same sky, the same wispy clouds obscuring the same near-midday sun. Ouma’s mind could be somewhere entirely different. Still, Saihara senses that they’ve been in the same place for a while. “Hey, Ouma-kun.”

“Hm?”

“That was, um. Insightful,” Saihara says. “So… thanks.”

“I told you I give great advice,” Ouma says. “In fact, I’m hurt that you’d ever doubt me!”

“Are you?”

“Nah, that was a lie. I keep my tidbits of wisdom all under wraps on purpose, so most people won’t even be able to guess what a great people person I am!” Ouma stretches his arms out above him with a carefree sigh. “That makes you a lucky guy, Saihara-chan.”

“Sure,” Saihara humors him, though by now most of the exasperation has drained from his voice.

“Hmph. Boring response,” Ouma says. He fishes his phone out again, checking something. “Anyway, it looks like we spent about ten minutes talking. So you owe me, hm… five thousand yen.”

Saihara’s spine immediately straightens. “What?!”

“Yeah, normally I charge more for consultations, but I figured I can give you a discounted rate, since I like you so much.” Ouma grins and jabs an expectant finger into Saihara’s arm. “Wisdom doesn’t come free, after all, so. Pay up!”

“Ouma-kun,” Saihara says, kneading his own forehead, “that’s ridiculous. You can’t make me pay that.”

“You mean that after I was so helpful to you, you’re just gonna blow me off?” Ouma’s lower lip trembles. “S-Saihara-chan is so meeeaaan!”

Saihara shakes his head. “I didn’t ask for you to give me advice. You volunteered that yourself.”

It takes a few moments for Ouma to realize that the tears he summons on command aren’t the least bit effective, and at that point he huffs, “Okay, fiiiine. How about you just take me to get ice cream and we’ll call it a free trial?”

Ouma has Saihara’s arm caught between both of his small hands now, and he doesn’t think the short man is going to let go, not with the way his eyes are sparkling like a child’s. Instead of agreeing, though, he asks, “When was the last time you ate?”

Ouma blinks innocently. “Why do you ask? You’re not gonna tell me not to spoil my dinner or something, are you?”

“No, I just, well,” Saihara fumbles a bit as it hits him how embarrassing his reasoning is. “Maybe it’s presumptuous of me, but I’d rather make sure you’re getting real food.”

“Aww, is Saihara-chan worried about me?” Ouma croons. “Does he want to treat me to a full four-course meal instead?”

“I don’t know about that, but. We could get lunch?” Saihara suggests. He doesn’t like how warm he’s getting under his collar.

“Lunch _and_ ice cream,” Ouma insists.

“Lunch and ice cream,” Saihara says with a pinched smile. “Okay.”

“Great!” Ouma swiftly hops onto his feet, tugging Saihara’s arm until he’s forced to stand as well. “Oh, I know just the place we can go, too. Come on!”

“Ah- slow down!” Saihara protests as Ouma drags him along, strides speedy with childish glee. It’s difficult to keep up with him mentally _and_ physically, he finds.

Still, as he stumbles down the sidewalk with Ouma tittering all the while, there’s no denying that his head is lighter than before.

**Author's Note:**

> The reason this is a vent is because I had uh, a bit of an odd encounter with an ex a couple days ago. It put me in a weird and kinda bad mood because the way it ended was awkward, void of communication, and basically without closure. So, this fic is sort of a reflection of my own feelings.
> 
> I also realized this might come off like I don't like Akamatsu or something, which isn't the case at all. I just associate her with some extent to that ex, but I tried to make her more sympathetic here than I think they are, because I don't think she's a bad person or that leaving unfulfilling relationships is a bad thing. I was knotted up inside and just had to get it out of my system, that's all.


End file.
